


Connection

by Andromache_42



Series: My SPN ABO Bingo 2018 [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Nesting, Omega Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s13e23 Let the Good Times Roll, Scents & Smells, Season/Series 13 Spoilers, hurt with some comfort, implied canon typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 00:39:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15830187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andromache_42/pseuds/Andromache_42
Summary: Dean finally manages to expel Michael and return home, but that simply means confronting the consequences, starting with those closest to home.Written for SPN ABO Bingo; square filled: Nesting





	Connection

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how I feel about this; it's a different style for me, but I hope you all like it! Thank you so much for reading!!

“Dean, no—”

_I can’t, Cas._

“Give up, Castiel. Your Dean is long gone.”

“Dean, I know you’re in there. I know you can hear—”

_Stop, Cas, he’s too strong!_

“Perhaps he can. Perhaps he can hear and see everything. How would he feel know it is _his_ hands that destroy you? Pathetic—”

“ _Nngh_ —Dean. Dean, please . . . you have to fight . . .”

_I can’t, Cas, I’m sorry, he’s . . . he’s . . . no, no, no, FUCK!!_

“You’re so broken, now, like this. Does he know, you think? Can he see you crumple under my hand? You’re nothing more than an insect.”

“Y— _mph!_ —you’re stronger— _ugh_ —than hi—”

_No! Fuck, Cas, no no no no . . . Stop it, stop it you BASTARD! STOP!!_

“Pathetic excuse for a seraph.”

“Dean . . . Dean, I n-need you. I . . . I l-lo—”

_GET OUT!! GET OUT YOU GODDAMNED SON—_ “OF A BITCH!!!”

____________

The pain is excruciating. There’s a white-hot dagger slicing straight through his gut, there’s electricity jolting into his fingers, and he can actually _feel_ his brain rattling against the inside of his skull.

But he’s breathing. It’s part of what’s causing the excruciating pain, so it must be real, right? None of the fantasy worlds Michael tried to lock him away in had real pain like this. It’s part of what helped him break free every time.

And, huh, he’s reasoning. Must mean his brain is still mostly intact. He’s pretty surprised; Michael had promised he’d leave it as brain soup.

So, working lungs, working brain, beating heart . . . all of his limbs, if he’s accounting correctly for the areas that hurt the most.

Slowly, painfully, Dean opens his eyes.

The first thing he notices is that the light fucking _hurts_ , though it’s kinda lost in a sea of other pain going on at the moment. The bunker’s never completely dark, so even though the lights are off there’s still some ambient glow from the hallway and the strangely illuminated vents. His eyes feel hot, almost like they’ve been singed from the inside, and while his vision is blurry, he can at least see.

And hear. It’s quiet, though. Almost too quiet. Steeling himself against the inevitable pain, Dean tries to push up into a sitting position. That white-hot dagger sensation lances through him, sharp and intense, and he gasps against it, fist curling tight into his covers.

“Sonofabitch,” he mutters, voice rough and painful, too.

“Dean?”

He blinks, vision clearing enough that he notices the fuzzy, flannel-wrapped figure slumped on the couch nearby. The figure unfolds, and it’s all long limbs and shaggy hair.

“Sam?”

“Yeah. Yeah, shit, it’s me, Dean. I-uh . . . I didn’t think you’d wake up.”

“Thank you for your confidence,” Dean croaks. Sam shudders a kind of laugh-sob that Dean tries not to think too hard about.

“Do you need anything? Water, maybe? How are you feeling?”

“Peachy, Sam. Like I’m patched with Scotch tape and regret.”

Sam fusses at his bedside like he doesn’t know where to put his hands, then settles on handing Dean a glass of water from one of the side tables. Dean reaches out, very slowly, and manages to get a grip on it even as his hands burn and tingle. He drinks slowly, too, at first, but the water feels so good on his parched throat that he gulps it down in a few seconds flat and gasps afterward.

“Damn, didn’t realize I was so thirsty.”

“You’re probably starving, too. Being possessed by an archangel burns a lot of calories.”

Dean has to concentrate for a moment before finding the general vicinity of where hunger pangs might be. But no, his entire midsection is one big ball of pain right now.

“Gotta say, Sammy, I kinda feel like I’ve been through a meat grinder.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. Hey, I’ll go grab you some more water, but I’ll be right back. You were out for a couple of days, and I was pretty worried, so . . .”

Dean nods as much as he can. He understands. It’s hard when you’ve been a pack of two for so long. Makes the connection even more intense, and separation’s a bitch. Dean scents subtly at the air, seeing if he can catch any of his brother’s distress. It’s usually sharp, a little funky, like rotting fruit.

Weird; nothing.

“Wearing the good blockers, huh?”

Sam stops in the doorway. “Dean, I haven’t even _showered_ in three days. Since we got you back. You sure you can’t . . .?”

Dean tries again. He’s getting air, for sure, but it’s clean. Actually, it isn’t _clean_ , it’s just _blank_ . . . He shakes his head, and Sam’s expression pinches. He’s worried, and suddenly it’s jarring that Dean can see that, but can’t catch a hint of it on the air.

“They, uh, they say that can happen with trauma,” Sam hedges. “It’s probably not permanent. I’ll have to talk to Cas—”

Something passes behind Sam’s eyes as he cuts himself off. Dean’s gut twists and it’s so painful it brings tears to his eyes.

_Strong hands, his hands, crunching bones and wrapped around his neck squeezing,_ squeezing, _until blue eyes turn cloudy . . ._

“Sam, where’s Cas?”

____________

Dean can’t leave his bed on his own for another three days. Sam helps him to the bathroom and back as needed, but Dean is too embarrassed to ask to go to the one place he really wants to be.

Cas’s room. Two doors down.

As he heals, it becomes clear that Michael actually left him in good physical condition. His eyes are back to normal first, losing their light sensitivity and pain (but maybe he checks out the selection of reading glasses the next time they’re at Wal-Mart, only because the Men of Letters’ writing is frickin’ _tiny_ , Sam!).

His limbs are taking longer; his hands and feet still tingle with pins and needles, which Sam says is something called “neuritis” and happens when the blood flow to the nerves is restricted for an extended period of time. He’s got most of his strength back, but he’s slow-moving while it feels like tiny knives are stabbing the bottom of his feet with every step.

His sense of smell, though . . . Dean’s been itching for a case, for some reason to leave the bunker for longer than a few hours ever since he started walking around again. Sam keeps telling him to rest, recover, that cases, even _Michael_ will still be there in a week or two or more. But Dean knows better. An omega without his sense of smell is vulnerable, weak . . .

_Broken_.

Dean hitches his blanket tighter around his shoulders. He’s always cold, now, even fully dressed under his dead guy robe, blanket wrapped around him. It’s weird to get used to, since as an omega he’s always run hot. He shuffles around the bunker in his layers with his ginger steps like the old man he was always pretty sure he’d never grow to be. And he’s drawn to one place.

Cas’s room is freezing, or maybe Dean just gets the chills from looking at the immobile form of his best friend. Cas is alive, Sam says, but beyond that they know next to nothing about his condition. The one thing they do know is that he isn’t healing. His injuries from the final fight with Michael look as fresh as the day Sam brought them both home.

Dean sits carefully in the chair he’d had Sam set up next to Cas’s bed and bundles himself tighter. It’s honestly pretty hard to look at Cas, but Dean does. He has to. There are livid splotches of bruises all over Cas’s swollen face. Blood still stands out from his busted lip and broken nose. Bright purple marks stand out against the paler skin of his neck where Dean’s hands had wrapped around it. If Dean hadn’t wrested control back in time, Michael might have torn Cas’s throat out. It turns his stomach.

Dean did this.

Sitting in this room, waiting for Cas to wake up, Dean’s nose itches with the lack of scent. When they’d first met, Cas had smelled like nothing Dean had ever experienced before. Walking into that barn, the overwhelming scent of ozone and ash, lightning and embers, added to the fear and fascination of him. He smelled like nothing human.

Jimmy had smelled like dry paper and ink, no hint of thunder or otherworldliness. Alpha, sure, but not in a dominant way. Not in a way that made Dean’s well-controlled inner omega curl up and purr.

When he’d been human, Dean had expected . . . well, he hadn’t expected much of anything. Maybe more of the same scent, or Jimmy’s, but human Cas had been something else entirely. Cinnamon and vanilla, warm and spicy, and (much to Dean’s chagrin) entirely intoxicating. When Gadreel had told him to evict Cas from the bunker, it had been an almost shameful relief to have Cas go. By the time Dean went to see him in Idaho, he’d been prepared. It had still hurt when he sent Cas off to go on a date with his beta boss, but that was the kind of pain Dean was used to enduring.

Over the years, as Cas’s grace waned and he drifted closer to human, Dean would catch hints of vanilla, wafts of spice, and it had been both exciting and sad.

Now, though. Now, there’s nothing. And Dean can’t tell if it’s his nose or . . . or something else. Something he doesn’t want to think about.

If there’s one thing that letting Michael wear him to the prom taught Dean, it’s patience.

So he waits.

____________

A week later, nearly two full weeks since Dean woke up, he’s still spending most of his time in his room, or in Cas’s. He’s sitting in bed with his laptop across his knees, surfing through local police scanners, when Sam pokes his head in the door.

“Hey,” he says, quick and matter-of-fact. “Caught a case.”

Dean grunts in response.

“Mom and Bobby were in the area, said there’s a basic salt-and-burn outside of Wichita. Thought we could take care of it.”

“They gonna meet us there?”

“No, it sounds like a textbook haunting. Figured it’d be an easy one.”

Dean gives Sam a look over his laptop. “Dude, I’m fine.”

“I know you’re fine. That’s why I thought we should take the case.”

“What about Cas? We can’t just leave him here alone.”

“I know. Charlie called, said she needed to come and do some research, so I figured she could watch him. She’s bringing Rowena with her, so if he needs anything they can take care of it.”

Dean snaps his computer shut. “All right, give me a minute to get ready.”

“Meet you at the car?”

“Yup.”

Sam hesitates for a moment, then leaves. Dean runs his hands through his hair and steels himself. They’ve been out a few times, but this would be the longest outing and the first hunt since expelling Michael. He isn’t nervous, but he does check twice to make sure everything is in its place before slinging a coat on.

Sam’s leaning against Baby in the garage when Dean finally makes it out with his duffel.

“Hey—is that Cas’s coat?”

Dean pulls the trench coat closed before sliding into the car. “Shut up, it’s cold out.”

____________

It turns out that being an omega with no sense of smell makes you a shitty hunter. What was supposed to be a haunting was actually a shapeshifter who got the drop on Dean while they were hiding out attempting to ambush it in its lair. Dean had been listening hard, but the fucker was almost completely silent and Dean’s always relied too heavily on scent, anyway. The result is a back full of bruises and a more pronounced limp.

Charlie’s happy to see them when they come in, though she blinks a few times too many to be natural when she looks at Dean. He wishes he knew what she was seeing, or scenting; she’s not the first person to react that way since he’s been back.

Dean bypasses the kitchen to head straight for a shower, but first he drops off Cas’s coat in his bedroom, throwing it on top of a pile of clothes he’s gathered from various places around the bunker. He should probably do laundry soon. He pulls an old, soft t-shirt and a pair of worn in jeans from his dresser before heading to the showers.

Under the hot water, the remaining aches and pains of Michael’s possession and their latest hunt melt away. Usually, his woodsy, cypress scent would diffuse into the steam, but it’s still like he has a permanently clogged nose. He ends the shower quickly after that, still frustrated with his failed senses. He dries off and dresses quickly, bypassing the laundry basket in the bathroom and tossing his towel into his bedroom.

He needs to check on Cas. He still isn’t healing properly, even at all. The bruises are still dark on his face, his typically tan skin turning pallid under in the bunker’s artificial light. With the room cold, and no change in him, it’s almost like looking at a body in a funeral home.

There’s a knock on the door frame behind him, and Dean only realizes he’s whining quietly when he cuts off abruptly. Charlie’s there, her face somehow both pinched and concerned at the same time. Dean wonders, again, what he smells like to her.

“There wasn’t any change while you were gone,” she says. “He’s just laying there. Isn’t he an angel? He’s supposed to heal, right?”

Dean sometimes forgets this isn’t _his_ Charlie. Sam got to know her well while Dean was gone, and he trusts her, but he also can’t forget that she comes from a universe where angels tortured and killed people.

“Yeah, he’s supposed to heal,” Dean says.

Charlie regards him quietly for a moment, then says, “Hey, those new security protocols on the bunker are amazing. I know it’s been a while since I’ve hacked anything big, but these are insane. I’ve never seen anything like them. Who set them up?”

“I dunno. I think Charlie—our Charlie—set it all up a few years ago . . .”

Charlie shakes her head, still keeping her distance. “No, I know what it used to be. I checked it all out when I first got here, remember? This is all new, gotta be pretty recent.”

Dean doesn’t know, so he doesn’t answer. It puts a strange itch under his skin, though, and he files it away to ask Sam about later.

____________

Charlie and Rowena end up staying a few more days, and Dean keeps to himself. Without another case, he tries not to wallow, tries to distract himself from any of the memories that might escape his nightmares and pop up during the day. The pile of laundry in his room is growing, and he’s too lazy to take books back to the library when he’s done with them. One night it’s so cold he drags Cas’s coat out of the pile and huddles under it while he sleeps. After that, he takes to putting on a sweater he found in it, too, for warmth.

More strange things show up around the bunker, too. The sigils that Michael had destroyed are completely restored, and Sam swears it wasn’t him. In fact, nobody could find any records of the original sigils in any of the Men of Letters files, so they’d all assumed they’d have to come up with a new method of security. These sigils are just as mysterious, but apparently even more effective. Rowena complained of a headache the entire time she was in the library.

Dean starts spending more of his time researching how to heal an angel. It’s been nearly a month, and Cas’s condition hasn’t changed. Dean’s sense of smell hasn’t returned, either, but Sam’s decided that he’s on it, so Dean lets him do whatever makes him happy.

Jack is back in the bunker after spending some time learning to hunt with Jody and the girls in Sioux Falls. According to Sam, it had been overwhelming for Jack to be in the same place as Dean and Cas and not be able to fix them. Dean’s secretly hoping the kid might have a little juice left over, even though Sam told him he’s not allowed to ask.

Meanwhile, the stash that Dean has building in his room is getting out of control. He’s decided that enough is enough, so today he’s at least going to figure out a place to put it all. At first, he tried putting the clothes in his closet, but that itchy feeling started to get unbearable so he pulled everything out and spread it all over his bed. As he’s organizing, he realizes that he’s got three piles: his stuff, Sam’s stuff, and Cas’s. Sam’s stuff obviously doesn’t go on Dean’s bed, and the stupid sasquatch should probably come wash it himself, anyway. Actually, it might have simply gotten mixed up with Dean’s laundry because half of it is folded and looks freshly washed. If only he had his sense of smell, he’d be able to tell the difference.

So, Sam’s clothes end up piled on the couch, after Dean does some arranging to bury the ones he thinks are dirty at the bottom of the pile. That settles the itch, but then he turns to look at his bed, which is piled with his own clothes and a couple of items of Cas’s. He pushes them to one side of the bed, leaving one side left for him to sleep. That’ll work until he can be bothered to sort everything and take it back where it belongs, because of course Cas can’t and Sam won’t get it himself.

“Hello!”

Dean nearly jumps when Jack pokes his head into the bedroom door. “Dammit, Jack. We gotta get you a bell.”

“I’m sorry. I only wanted to say hello, because the last time I saw you, you were still . . .”

Jack trails off and looks so heartbroken that Dean melts. “Hey, kid, none of that’s on you. I, uh . . . I’m glad you’re okay, too.”

Jack beams at that, then his smile falters again. “I couldn’t save Castiel,” he whispers. “I tried, and I couldn’t. I don’t have any grace left.”

Dean swallows around a lump in his throat, nodding. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Sam told me. I’m sure you did everything you could.”

And, dammit, now Jack looks like he’s going to cry. Fuck, Cas was supposed to be his dad, supposed to look out for him, and now look at the mess—

“What’s all this?”

Instinctively, Dean moves to stop Jack from stepping completely into the room, blocking his view of the (frankly, massive) piles of clothes. For some reason, Jack’s eyes go wide and he takes a step back, hands up in front of him, placating.

“Oh. OH! I’m so sorry, Dean, I didn’t realize. Of course. I apologize for encroaching on your territory. I will remain here in the hallway.”

Dean freezes. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demands.

“I didn’t mean to intrude on your nest. I know that omegas often build them in times of great duress—”

“Dude, that’s not what’s happening.”

Jack blinks at him, tilting his head in a way that makes Dean ache. “You are an omega, yes?”

“Yeah, but—”

“And I’m sure you’re still recovering from your ordeal with the archangel.”

“I mean, I guess—”

“And those are Sam and Castiel’s clothes, items that would carry their scent most easily.”

“I don’t know what that has to do—”

“And you’ve arranged Castiel’s clothing on your bed, where you sleep, to be closer to your injured mate while he is recovering.”

You could have heard a pin drop. Dean’s mouth went dry. “The fuck did you say?”

Jack must have sensed the change in Dean’s mood, must have scented it even as Dean could not. “I—I apologize. I’ve been learning more about the world without my powers, and secondary genders, and I thought . . . you and Castiel . . . your scents . . .”

Dean is suddenly in Jack’s personal space and he can’t recall moving. “What do you mean?” he snapped.

“Sam said it’s because you’re scent bonded. Cinnamon and cypress. Vanilla and evergreen. I thought . . . I thought you knew?”

In vain, Dean sniffs the air as though he could breathe hard enough to make his sense of smell return.

“I don’t—I can’t smell anything.”

Jack smiles at him softly. “Maybe when he wakes up, you’ll know.”

____________

It’s been forty-three days since Dean woke up after being possessed by Michael, and it looks as though Cas is finally, _finally_ beginning to recover. Sam has no idea what started the healing process, so Dean sure as fuck doesn’t know, either. Jack swears it wasn’t him, that he’s still as powerless as ever. Dean still wakes up screaming to nightmares, but they’ve abated since he has settled into the nest (yes, goddammit, it’s a fucking _nest_ ) he built in his room.

It doesn’t escape his notice that it’s a nest built for exactly _one_.

But Cas is healing. Slowly. Like a human. Bruises fading to nothing, cuts knitting closed with new skin. He’s still pale, too pale, but he hasn’t seen the sun in so long that’s not surprising. Dean is back to his vigil, but with Jack there now they almost take turns. Sometimes Dean and Sam go to tackle small hunts (which Dean still sucks at, but he’s learning to work without his sense of smell – he’s sure it’s not returning at this point), sometimes Sam takes Jack. But never Dean and Jack; one of them is always with Cas.

Little things return to normal. First, Dean’s temperature starts to equalize. Shortly after, Cas’s does, too. The bruises disappear, then the cut on his lip becomes a small scar. And that pisses Dean right off. He’s an angel, dammit, scars look _wrong_ on him.

One day when Sam and Jack are on a hunt, Dean leans forward and gently takes Castiel’s hand in his own. It’s warm, like Dean’s own skin, but heavy. It’s a shock when Dean realizes this is the first time he’s touched Cas since . . . since it was his hands wrapped around Cas’s throat, choking him.

“You have to tell me what you did to save me,” Dean had demanded of Sam before they left.

“No, Dean.”

“Dammit, Sammy, if you tell me, we might be able to save him!”

“No, Dean. This was his choice. I know you don’t like it, but there isn’t anything we can do. He chose this.”

“He chose to die?”

Sam had leveled him with a look that burned Dean’s insides. “He’s not dying, Dean. Be patient.”

So Dean waits, holding Cas’s hand in his own.

____________

“I’m so sorry,” Dean begins one day, holding Cas’s hand. “I shouldn’t have . . . I shouldn’t have left you here. If you’d come with me, then maybe . . . maybe he wouldn’t have been able to take control. Maybe we could’ve saved all those people. People that died because of me. I had to watch him use me, Cas. Sometimes he locked me away, but it was always wrong. You want to know the thing he got wrong most of all? Your scent. It’s probably ‘cause I’m too stupid to have it stored away right or something. Memory’s wrong or whatever.

“Fuck, I wanna scent you again. Jack—he said . . . Well, never mind. That’s not . . . I’m no good, Cas. No good.”

And he isn’t. Certainly not after it’s his fault that Cas is like this. He should dismantle that stupid nest in his room, put everything back, ignore his dumb omega nature like he always has and start living like the beta Michael turned him into. He hasn’t had a heat since, probably won’t have another one again. And then Jack says that bullshit about mates, and his head is reeling . . .

But . . . new security protocols, Charlie said. Ancient sigils no one can read, or find in any books. Weeks of searching, trying to find a way to bring back Dean and defeat Michael . . .

And healing at a rate that is so very _human_ . . .

“Cas, goddammit, you son of a bitch . . .”

____________

Sam catches Dean in the middle of moving his nest into Castiel’s room. It probably would’ve been easier to just move Cas, but Dean didn’t want to disturb him. If Sam’s curious, he doesn’t say anything, and Dean certainly doesn’t volunteer.

Castiel wakes on the second night after Dean moves the nest. He’s groggy and disoriented, but Dean helps him gain his bearings, and Cas clings to him instinctively.

Because Dean might’ve been nesting, but Castiel had been _denning_. Making sure their fortress was safe for his mate’s return.

____________

“What broke the connection?” Castiel asks him one night, in their nest. Dean pauses, taking Cas’s hands to his lips and kissing them gently, before answering.

Quietly.

“ _You_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! Kudos and comments warm my heart :-) If you guys want to keep up with my bingo fills, subscribe to my ABO Bingo series! For other updates, you can subscribe to me in my profile, or follow me on tumblr at andromachewritesstuff!


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